IT’S A SPARKLY SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA day as Erica and her driver wend their way through Brentwood toward Kay Barrish’s house. Erica is always dazzled by LA; the colors seem so much more vivid, varied, and saturated than back east, as if God was working with an extra box of paints when he created the landscape. Has it really only been three and a half weeks since the ferry crash? And now—wearing the pantsuit—she’s meeting one of the most admired women in the country. To calm herself, and for good luck, Erica fingers her simple blue clip-on earrings. The car arrives at a large gate, and her driver pushes a button on an intercom stand.
“Yes?”
“Erica Sparks to see Ms. Barrish.”
The gates swing open and they drive up a small rise and find themselves in a parking court in front of a rambling white house that looks as if it were airlifted in from Connecticut—except for the pop of neon color provided by the blooming vines that artfully climb the façade. It’s a large house, yes, but not at all gaudy or intimidating.
Erica gets out of the car just as Kay Barrish comes out of the house. She’s wearing Levi’s, a white cotton shirt, a brown leather belt, and blue sneakers—the orange scarf tied around her neck gives her a splash of color. She looks lovely: fresh, fit, and vibrant. She grasps Erica’s hands and gives her a radiant movie-star smile. “Erica, welcome. How terrific to meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Before we go any further, I have a message from Nancy Huffman, the head of wardrobe at GNN, and Rosario Acevado, one of our makeup artists: ‘We love you.’ I, on the other hand, reserve judgment.”
Barrish roars with laughter. Her face looks unlifted, if pampered, she’s wearing nothing more than lipstick, and her silver-blonde hair is swept back and picks up glints of sunlight. “Oh good, you’ll keep me on my toes! And love back to those two ladies. Come in, come in.”
Erica follows Kay into the house. The living room is large and comfortable, the furnishings a mix of traditional and modern, with bold abstract art on the walls. The far wall is all glass and looks out onto a large yard, a pool, and several outbuildings. Kay leads them down a wide hallway and into the kitchen/family room, which is huge and filled with sparkly appliances, but lived-in and homey at the same time.
“How about a cup of coffee?”
“Love one.”
“And I made us some muffins.”
“Did you really?”
“No.” The women smile at each other. “I’m not much of a cook, although I do make delicious boiled water.”
“You should taste my Cheerios.”
Kay pours them both mugs of coffee. “So, Mom was very impressed with you.”
“We had a nice time. She’s really mastered aging, hasn’t she?”
“I’m awfully proud of her.” Kay leans forward, forearms on the counter, and lowers her voice, pulling Erica in. “It was so tough on her when Dad died. They just adored each other. If she hadn’t had to take care of me, I think she would have drowned in her grief. But she got up every morning and did what she had to do. There wasn’t any money. She went back to college and got her teaching degree. She cooked dinner every night and helped me with my homework. And, as you saw, she found a passion, a way to bring beauty into the world. When I look at her garden, I see grief transformed.”
Listening to her, Erica completely forgets she’s talking to one of the most famous and formidable women in the country, someone with a good chance of becoming president.
“How did it affect you?” she asks.
“It was a terrible shock, of course. I was Daddy’s girl and then suddenly Daddy was gone. I’m not sure you ever fully recover from a shock that great.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I think it gave me my drive. I was so little, but kids feel things that they may not understand intellectually. I could feel Mom’s sadness, and to be honest, I wanted to get away from it. It was more than I could handle. And I wanted to live, fully and completely, to make my life matter. In honor of Dad, but also because I instinctively understood how fragile life is. We don’t have forever.” Kay looks out the window at the beautiful day.
Erica is moved by her words. Was there an element of performance? Of course there was. But all great performances contain truth—that’s what makes them great.
Kay stands up tall, and when she speaks, her voice is full. “Well, we certainly got to the nitty-gritty in record time.”
“I know your father would be very proud of you.”
“I sure hope so.” She makes an encompassing gesture. “None of this happened by accident. Come on, let me show you around.”
For the next hour Erica gets a tour of Barrishland. She sees the pool, the children’s playground, and the gardens with their crazy-quilt California colors and view of the Pacific, blue and crashing and infinite.
“Not a single hosta,” Kay cracks.
The sprawling guesthouse has been turned into her office, nerve center, and de facto campaign headquarters. One room is home to half a dozen nicely dressed operatives and aides, several of them on their smartphones, the others hunched over computer screens, monitoring social media sites and keeping Kay’s posts up to the minute. A second room is filled with younger, casually dressed interns who are working the phones, reaching out to voters across the country. There are a couple of private offices. In one Erica is introduced to Audra Ruiz, Kay’s chief of staff, a woman whose fiercely intelligent eyes quickly size up Erica. The second is lined wall to wall with books and is home to a researcher and a speech writer. As Kay walks through the rooms, she answers questions, makes requests, asks about family members, and banters with an easy jocularity—she is clearly a much-loved boss. Doing her research, Erica discovered that many of Barrish’s staff have been with her since she first entered politics. The whole place hums with a sense of unity, purpose, and momentum. People are working hard, very hard, but they are happy to be doing so.
Finally there’s Kay’s private office, the door guarded by a no-nonsense middle-aged male secretary.
“Bob Franklin, Erica Sparks,” Kay says.
Franklin smiles but—like Audra Ruiz—there’s a protective scrutiny in his eyes. Erica gets the sense these people would lay down their lives for Kay Barrish.
“Bob is an organizational genius. Without him I’d be nothing but Post-it notes and missed appointments.”
“And gray roots,” he adds.
“I’ve asked you not to reveal any state secrets.”
Kay leads Erica into her office. One wall is book lined; there’s an enormous desk, a comfortable seating area, and a view of the ocean out a picture window.
“Well, there you have it,” Kay says. “Our foundation is headquartered downtown and is much more formal.”
Unlike most successful people’s offices, this one has no wall filled with plaques, awards, and certificates. “Where’s the trophy wall?” Erica asks.
“I’m much more interested in where I’m going than where I’ve been.”
“It’s all very impressive. May I ask one question?”
“Shoot.”
“When are you going to announce your decision on running for president?”
“Mom was right about you, Erica. You’re direct and honest. I like that. Mom also told me about your struggles. I admire that.”
Kay sits on one of two facing sofas and gestures to the other one. Erica sits.
“As to your question: Both my kids are off in college and doing well. My husband is supportive. People across the country and across the political spectrum are urging me to get into the race. I have concrete, well-thought-out ideas that I believe can unite the country and move us all forward.” Barrish grows pensive; she looks around the room, gathers herself. “All that said, it’s a big step and I have to be absolutely sure that I’m up for it and that it’s the right move for my family. And I’m not quite there yet.” There’s a pause; she locks eyes with Erica. “Off the record, if you buy that denial, I have a nice bridge you might be interested in.”
Erica sits there, stunned into momentary silence. Then Barrish lets out one of her warm, loud, down-to-earth laughs, calls Bob into the office, and sets up Erica’s interview for the next day.